Page 18 of The Rival’s Obsession (The Black Ledger Billionaires #3)

I slept like shit. Not that I’m willing to admit why.

The board’s looming vote is an easy scapegoat. So is the calendar mishap. The Wolfe of Manhattan breathing down our necks. Plenty of rational reasons to toss and turn all night.

None of them explain why my head wouldn’t shut off. Why I kept replaying yesterday’s argument on a loop—every word, every glance, every breath too close. And none of them explain why I checked my phone the second I woke up.

Why my shoulders dropped when there was nothing from Dante.

I left late last night. The kind of late where most of the building had already gone dark. But I know for a fact Dante and his team were still here. Lights on, voices tight, models being rearranged and reworked like salvation could be built out of foam core and reinforced glass.

I stepped in for a bit, helped one of the render teams in a corner conference room that had been half-commandeered into a war zone of coffee cups, laptops, and tension. It was safe in there. Tucked away from Dante’s mood and Frankie’s no-bullshit perimeter defense.

But even in that room, I couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere. In the clean edges of the facade. In the light-mapping innovations his mind engineered. In the way the layout pulled function and form into something living.

His brilliance is annoying. Mostly because I admire it.

And when I was leaving, shoulders heavy with fatigue and frustration, I caught a glimpse of him across the floor.

Just a flicker of eye contact. His face remained neutral—icy calm, like always—but his espresso eyes were burning.

The kind of quiet storm no one else would notice unless they’d spent far too long looking for it.

I turned away first. That’s the part I can’t stop replaying. The burn of his stare I felt every step to the elevators.

Now it’s morning, and the pitch meeting with the client is set to begin in less than an hour. The entire firm is holding its breath—and so is the board. Everything is riding on this.

I send a text.

Just a short one. Professional. Cold, even. But it’s also the second one I’ve sent.

Still no response to the first.

I try not to look at my phone like a teenager waiting to be noticed. Try not to care that it’s unread. As the elevator rises, I focus on my reflection in the mirrored walls—tie straight, jaw tight. The version of me that doesn’t care is the one I wear today.

Hours pass.

Still nothing.

My irritation starts to rot at the edges, curling into something sharp and defensive. Sarcasm coats it. Makes it easier to carry.

It only gets worse when Corrine calls me into her office midmorning. Something about expense reports—some bullshit line item she could easily delegate. I’m not sure if she’s trying to bait me or distract me, but either way, I don’t have the patience.

She asks why I’m in such a mood.

I don’t answer.

Because I don’t want to explain that the person I’m irritated with isn’t even in this room—and that maybe I’m not irritated so much as... concerned. Not that I’d ever call it that out loud.

I excuse myself and head for Dante’s floor.

I’ve looked at my phone a hundred times already, but I check again as I cross the executive lobby. Still no update. Not even the dots of a pending reply.

Frankie’s behind her desk when I arrive, tapping away at her keyboard with a mug that says, World’s Best Assistant to the World’s Okayest Boss.

“Let me guess,” I mutter as I stop in front of her desk. “He’s passed out in a strip club somewhere. Champagne in one hand, misplaced ego in the other?”

Frankie doesn’t bite. No sarcastic jab, no eye roll. Just stillness.

Her posture is tight. One foot bouncing slightly, fingers flexing and unflexing in her lap. Frankie gives a damn, but more importantly—she’s used to Dante’s chaos. If she’s unnerved, something’s wrong.

“What is it?” Chills rush down my spine in a wave.

“I’ve texted, called. Nothing. Even when he’s drunk, furious, halfway to Milan—he picks up.”

I pull out my phone and hit dial on a number I’ve not called in years.

Two rings and it connects.

“St. Vincent’s Medical,” a woman answers. “Are you a relative of the patient?”

My pulse skips. “Dante Marchesi?”

“Yes. He was admitted early this morning. Are you a relative? We’re trying to locate his next of kin.”

That’s not good. That’s never good.

“Yes, I’m next of kin,” I say, already pushing toward the elevator. “I’m on his emergency contact. I need to know what happened.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can’t disclose any patient information over the phone.”

She doesn’t wait for the argument she probably expects. “If you can come to the hospital, we’ll walk you through what we can.”

She doesn’t even finish the sentence before I hang up.

“Dante’s in the hospital,” I bark toward Frankie. “Reschedule my meetings.”

She bolts up from her chair. “Wait—what? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know,” I mutter without looking back.

And if he’s not—if he’s not okay—I have no idea how I’ll tell his father.

How I’ll walk into that man’s estate and explain that his son...

No. I don’t let the thought finish.

I just get in the elevator and slam the button for the lobby like I can outpace whatever’s waiting for me on the other side.

In twenty minutes, I pull into valet like I’m about to rob the place—tires screeching, door half open before the car even stops. I toss the keys at the stunned attendant with a barked, “Just hold the ticket,” and push through the hospital’s sliding glass doors.

The front desk is too calm. Too quiet. The woman behind it types like she’s got all day.

“Dante Marchesi,” I say, voice clipped, breath tight. “Where is he?”

She doesn’t even glance up. Just keeps typing. And typing. And typing.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. Is she typing up the goddamn Declaration of Independence?

Finally, she sighs and pops her gum with a loud crack. “Oh, this one.”

My stomach drops. “He’s alive?”

She leans back in her chair, chewing lazily. “And won’t shut up.”

Relief floods me so fast my knees nearly give. I brace a hand on the counter.

“What happened?”

“Ran a red light or something. Lost a battle with a dump truck.” She lifts a shoulder like she’s describing a minor fender bender. “Got pinned. They had to cut him out of the car.”

My heart drops again, lower this time. “Jesus.”

She goes back to typing. Another loud crack of gum. “They’re still waiting on scans, but the only thing injured is his ego. Maybe his leg. He’s in 804.”

I’m moving immediately, heading straight for the elevators.

As I ride up to the eighth floor, I’m not sure which emotion is louder—rage that he got himself into this mess, or the shaky, low-grade relief that he’s still here to piss me off.

The doors open. I step out, scanning for the room.

I find it by the nurse walking out with a chuckle, shaking her head like she’s just been hit on and can’t decide if she’s amused or flattered.

Fucking flirt.

That pisses me off more.

I round the corner and step into the room.

Dante’s sitting up in the hospital bed, pulling off gauze wrapped around his head and fussing with his dark hair. A bruise already blooming across his temple, scratches on his neck and collarbone—airbag, probably.

When he sees me, he quirks a brow. “You here to enjoy the show? Another viral video, perhaps?” He inspects his IV like he’s going to pull it out.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.

“I’m here to make sure you’re breathing, asshole.”

“Aw, Lucciolina. ” He grins. “You do care.”

Dante’s lips are just starting to curl into another smartass comment when pain hits him.

His whole body seizes.

“ Merda —” he chokes out, jaw clenched, one hand flying to his thigh.

The way his face twists—sharp pain and surprise—has me moving before I even register it.

“Hey. Hey,” I murmur, stepping in close.

My hand slides over his, catching it through the blanket. I press it down—not hard, just enough to anchor him, to let him know I’ve got him. That he doesn’t have to brace through it alone.

But his breathing is ragged now, uneven. One hand grips my wrist like a vise. His other hand fists the sheets.

I slip beneath the blanket. The warmth of his bare skin punches through me. Jesus. The muscle’s locked, tight as a wire, and my fingers move instinctively—slow, steady circles just above the cramp. I keep my touch firm, careful.

His breath catches.

And when I glance at his face?—

He’s staring at me. Really staring.

Eyes heavy-lidded but razor focused. His lashes cast low shadows, but nothing dims that look—like he sees every thought racing through me. Every place my mind is going. Every place my hands have already been.

There’s a pull in my chest, hot and coiled. A hum beneath my skin. Like I’ve grabbed a live wire and can’t let go.

He’s not watching me with that usual sharp-edged mockery, but something quieter. Heavier. Something that makes it impossible to breathe.

There’s a dark freckle high on his left cheek. A small scar at the base of his chin—one I’ve seen a thousand times but never like this. His mouth is parted, lips full, and his breathing matches mine—too fast, too shallow, like we’re both seconds from something we can’t take back.

I don’t say anything. Can’t.

Because this? This isn’t banter or bravado. This is real.

His fingers tighten around my wrist.

Just slightly. Just enough to make sure I feel it.

And then he shifts.

His legs part, just a little. Just enough.

The message is clear. He’s not asking.

He’s offering.

And then his hand moves.

“Dante,” I say again, voice lower now. Rougher.

He doesn’t answer. Just holds my wrist as his body stays tense beneath mine. He breathes through another wave of pain—or maybe it’s something else entirely—and then he guides me.

Slow.

Intentional.

He drags my hand from his thigh and moves it lower.

Lower.

Until I feel him.

The hard, unmistakable line of his cock beneath the hospital gown.

“Proprio come prima,” ? * Dante murmurs, voice low as sin. “So hard for you.”

He presses my palm to it. Holds it there.

The air vanishes from my lungs.

Heat explodes in my face. In my chest. Down my spine. My hand under the blanket is still resting high on his thigh, dangerously close, unmoving now—but not pulling away.

I’m frozen. But I feel everything.

The pounding of my heart. The sweat at the base of my neck. The low buzz under my skin that tells me I should leave. But fuck if I can.

Dante’s eyes haven’t left mine. Not once.

He looks like he’s daring me.

Daring me to say I don’t want this. Daring me to pretend like we haven’t been circling this for years. Like this isn’t exactly what we both thought about more nights than we’ll ever admit.

My mouth opens, but no words come out. Just breath.

Shallow. Hitched. Desperate.

My fingers twitch beneath the blanket. A reflex. My body betraying the denial on the tip of my tongue.

“Lo vuoi ancora. Anche se menti.” ? *

The smallest smirk lifts the corner of his mouth as he presses my hand harder, his hips raising.

And that’s when I snap.

I tear both hands away—fast and clumsy—like I’ve been burned. My heart’s in my throat, my skin on fire. I step back so quickly I almost trip over the damn IV pole.

The door opens behind me.

A nurse walks in, clipboard in hand. “Alright, Mr. Marchesi, looks like you’ll live.” She looks up, noticing me mid-breakdown.

“F-Frankie’ll send a car,” I blurt. My voice sounds like someone else’s. “To get you home.”

Dante reclines back into the bed like a king who’s just won the fucking war. That smug, lazy smirk blooming again. His eyes never leave me as he puts his hands behind his head.

“I’ll follow up with the c-client,” I add, backing toward the door. “Smooth it over.”

I don’t wait for a response.

I just get the hell out of the room.

Because if I stay a second longer, I won’t be able to pretend I’m still in control.

And Dante Marchesi already knows that.

* ? “Just like before.”

* ? “You still want it. Even when you lie.”